2 February 2019 (Saturday) - Dover Beer Festival
I got up for the loo in the small hours and went arse-over-tit down the stairs. *Someone* had left their dinner bowl on one of the stairs. I’m not assigning blame, but how many of the family walk round carrying their dinner bowl with them?
I went back to bed and gave the duvet a rather serious yank so’s I could actually have some. I managed to secure about eighteen inches of the thing, and then shivered through nightmares in which our usual walking pals had dragooned me into being the co-pilot of their formula one racing car. The co-pilot’s position in this car being pinned to the roof by the G-forces.
Over brekkie (toasted fruit loaf) I watched an episode of “Little Britain” then had a quick look at the Internet. Nothing much had changed.
I got myself organised and went to the station. As I walked in to the place there was a rather stupid woman shrieking at the world to look out for her bike which she had put across the entrance. I suggested she move it, and she got rather aggressive; she felt it was fine where it was. I suggested it wasn’t, hence her shrieking at everyone.
I went to the cashpoint machine and found it was out of order. Something of a pain. For all that there is another cashpoint machine only a hundred yards away at the BP garage it necessitated another run in with the idiot with the bike. And once I’d physically thrown her bike out of my way I had a run-in with another bunch of idiots who didn’t understand how the door to the International station worked. Basically the door rotates and you walk through it as it turns. If you keep bashing into it, it stops. Some idiot Frenchman was making a point of continually bashing into it. After I’d explained to him (half a dozen times) how not to be a tit I wrenched the thing open. I was in something of a rush.
I got my cash from the PB garage, and I was *so* glad to find that when I got back to the station the idiots swarming round the door had gone. I’d already had two squabbles before nine o’clock.
"er indoors TM" turned up, as did the train to Dover. At the station we met Jimbo, and we walked to the Maison Dieu. Finding that the beer festival didn’t start until half past ten we went to McDonalds for more brekkie only to find the lace had closed down. We went to Greggs for brekkie instead. Have you ever been to Greggs in Dover? I can’t recommend the place.
We went back to the Maison Dieu and joined the queue which was forming. It wasn’t long before we were drinking, and not long after that Terry and Irene joined us. I made copious note of what happened. Such a shame that I lost them. They eventually came to light. Here’s what I guzzled:
Kentish Rye Porter (Canterbury)
The Devil Made Me Brew It (Arbor)
Dark Snow (Old Dairy)
Merlin’s Muddle (Tintagel)
Christmas Pudding (Kent)
Black Pearl (Gadds)
Quadrant Oatmeal Stout (East London)
Brewers’ Reserve (Kent)
Excalibur (Tintagel) (again)
Christmas Ale (St Peters)
Opium Wars (Tapstone)
My notes made mention of “Hippo” and “RB” which obviously referred to the singalongs of the hippopotamus song and of Rue Britannia. But “WM”, “Canadians”, “Soldier” and “TBP” could refer to absolutely anything.
I did take a few photos of the day, but they didn’t really shed any light on what I’d scribbled.
Quite a bit of rather strong ale we all said our goodbyes. We had a cuppa at the station whilst waiting for the train which didn’t take *that* long to arrive.
I didn’t fall asleep on the train…